


A Back-and-Forth on Ups and Downs

by brightblackbird



Category: Rookies - Morita Masanori & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Wings, Canon - Manga, M/M, Non-Explicit, Size Difference, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-08
Updated: 2017-01-08
Packaged: 2018-09-15 16:47:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9245966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brightblackbird/pseuds/brightblackbird
Summary: In which Hiratsuka aspires to slip the surly bonds of earth, but is constrained by literal gravity and metaphorical teenage hormones.(AKA: The Weird Repressive Wing Dystopia Where No One Gets Sex Ed. Rated M for Metaphorical.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Started this one about a year ago before I had a firm grasp of what counts as in-character for the two of them and some remnants of that remain, along with areas I never managed to flesh out to my satisfaction. However, I doubt I'll manage to add much more, so here it is. 
> 
> It strikes me now that the actual AU here is Imaoka having the slightest hesitation about grabbing Hiratsuka in public.
> 
> (Technically underage, but entirely metaphorical and non-explicit.)

"I'm telling you, I can _feel_ it!"

It was weird, Imaoka sometimes thought, how they all just walked around with these wings they weren't supposed to touch. Not in public, at least. Probably most people went over theirs in private every once in a while to keep them looking presentable, and it wasn't like you could avoid the occasional collision with someone else's in a crowd. But you didn't talk about that when it happened past a muttered apology. And you definitely didn't spread them out and show your wingspan to anyone else.

Hiracchi—as he usually was—was another story. His wings were always in the way somehow, and they unfurled at the slightest provocation because he had no interest in keeping them more than half-folded, ever. He kept them in scrupulous order, too; and every other day he'd drag Imaoka up to the roof, where they really, really weren't supposed to be, and point him at some problem area, expecting him to just reach in and fix it. Which you really, really, _really_ weren't supposed to do. Especially at school.

The problem was that Hiracchi's wings were huge and jet black and completely gorgeous, and everybody knew it, because _he_ knew it and was obscenely proud of them. And when you grabbed them they twitched a little in surprise, every time, which only Imaoka knew, because he always followed Hiracchi up to the roof. Every single time.

"I can feel it," Hiracchi said again. "It's throwing my whole groove off. I can't concentrate on anything."

"Hiracchi, I really don't see anything," Imaoka protested, hands poised over the top ridges of his wings—the part he might call the second shoulders if he were trying to describe them. The actual word felt too dirty to say out loud, but he'd looked it up in a book once in the very back of the library, just so he could prove to Hiracchi there was no way anyone in the world could know what he meant when he said to reach into the Fifth Hiratsukan Zone of Power. The librarian had walked by before he got too far, but the feathers there were called the "scapulars".

He was trying, as usual, not to get too excited about sticking his hands into someone else's wings, with all those weird, stiff, glossy feathers that led into the warm, downy crest where the bone and muscle curved down into the back, and the sick electric thrill in his stomach that he somehow never got from touching his own.

"Well, it's there! Come on, you're not even trying to find it."

Honestly, he wasn't even sure how Hiracchi got this many loose feathers. But he did have kind of a sixth sense about them, so as usual Imaoka gave up and let himself be guided along the wing. "Up. Left. Your other left—further in—there! Right there."

And there it was, a slightly crooked mid-sized feather. It was hidden beneath its brothers, only its tip showing, and probably completely invisible when the wings were folded. But if Hiracchi said it was loose, it was loose.

He'd gotten way too used to that pleased grunt when he pulled it out.

Hiracchi leaped from where he sat straight onto his feet and spun around a few times, wings still spread and trailing a half-second behind him until he nearly toppled over from the drag.

" _There_ we go," he crowed. "Back to perfection. If I do say so myself."

"You always do."

Hiracchi ignored him in favor of another dangerously lopsided twirl. "Shit, I bet I could fly with these things, they're that damn good. I amaze myself."

His flapping was magnificent, light shimmering on the black feathers as the first few experimental pumps kicked up a wind that blew Imaoka's bangs into his eyes. He brushed them back absently, and only then did he spring to his own feet, registering just how dangerous those flaps were.

"Hiracchi, not on the roof!"

He was back on the ground almost as soon as he'd jumped, this time on top of Hiracchi. They'd hit the concrete at an awkward angle and for a moment he  
was afraid he'd heard the crunch of a bad landing.

"Oof!" Pissed, but not hurt. "The hell's your problem?" He shoved, but Imaoka held tight.

"We can't fly in public. Everyone knows that. _You_ know that." He tried to get some control over his pounding heart, which he knew wasn't just from panic or the sudden exertion, and hoped very hard that Hiracchi did in fact know that.

"It's the sky! How private can it get?"

That was a surprisingly good point. "Well..." His panting slowed. "I guess we just can't fly, then."

Hiracchi started to squirm. "First of all, dumbass, get off me."

He rolled off guiltily, and Hiracchi rose to his feet and spread his wings back out, preening for a few seconds and checking very pointedly for damage. He fanned some dust off with a few small, controlled twitches.

Imaoka was still on the ground, caught up in the sight—mouth hanging open a little, maybe—when Hiracchi dropped the act, spun back around and pinned him flat on his back.

Almost flat on his back. This position was really hard on the wings.

"Second of all," Hiracchi said, face inches from his and scowling furiously, "I think you're jealous."

"Jealous?" he managed to squeak. He was being pinned down with a forearm in what felt like his actual lung. "Hiracchi, come on, I can't breathe."

The forearm eased up a bit. "You're jealous," he repeated. "No one in this place wants me to reach my real potential, which is flying, because they're jealous of these—" he gave one huge, stomach-churning flap that swept an eddy of rubble clattering audibly over the guardrail on the edge of the roof— "and you are the most jealous of all."

"You never mentioned flying before," Imaoka objected. "I thought your real potential was eating your own weight in hot dogs."

"That was last week! And it's still on the list. ...Anyway, _you_ are jealous."

"Why would I be jealous?"

"Because whatever you've got back there, it clearly doesn't measure up to my glorious appendages!" A thought seemed to occur to him and his brows knit even further. "Hey, what exactly are you packing, anyway? I've never even seen 'em spread."

"You never asked," Imaoka said uncomfortably.

"So now I'm asking!"

"You're not supposed to ask. Or... show them off to other people. Like you do," he couldn't help adding, on the off chance Hiracchi had learned to feel shame in the past 30 seconds.

"Dude, who gives a shit? Spread 'em, I wanna see." He squinted, suddenly suspicious. "What, are they huge or something?"

"No," Imaoka had to admit. He shifted them painfully against the concrete, trying to get them out of sight. "They're nothing special."

They weren't. He kept them squeezed in tight except when he was alone (because he was a _normal person_ , for God's sake). They folded in pretty tightly once you set your mind to trying, and after a while it got to be second nature. You couldn't spread your wings in public any more than you could take a leak with an audience watching you. Hiracchi never set his mind to anything except for himself, so he could do pretty much anything in front of anyone.

The unfortunate truth, though, was that Imaoka would probably spread them out in the middle of class if Hiracchi badgered him for long enough. The longer he kept going, the more sense he always started to make, somehow.

"Fine," he said quickly—just to cover up how far he'd cave if this kept going. "I'll show you if you let me up."

"Because even if they're huge, I bet you mine are way bigger. And stronger. And shinier."

God, it was like being crushed by an idiot bear. With exactly the same grasp of human society.

"I said you can see them if you let me up. They're just ordinary wings. I'm not jealous, or whatever."

Hiracchi eased up, finally, shifting his weight away and lifting himself up a bit on his arms. Slowly enough that he could pretend it was his own idea. As soon as Imaoka's arms were free, he seized the chance to scoot backwards on his elbows and tug the rest of himself loose. As he struggled to his feet, Hiracchi stayed stubbornly on the ground, crossing his arms as casually as he could manage, until he seemed to realize it was impossible to pretend that he didn't care.

" _Fine,_ then," he said, hopping up crossly and brushing the dust off his uniform this time. "Show me what you got."

Imaoka struggled to his feet and tried to relax a few muscles he hadn't let go in a long time. He looked off into the distance, trying to pretend he was alone and not standing on top of the school in front of his best friend, about to embarrass himself beyond all reason. Then he flexed and they unfurled stiffly.

Hiracchi's mouth fell open. "Holy shit, dude, you've got stripes!"

"They're just streaks. It's normal, some people just..." He trailed off. Actually, he'd never seen anyone else with them. But that was normal. They were on the inside, so they just weren't visible when you kept your wings closed. Like a normal person.

But already Hiracchi was off in another direction. "Have you ever groomed these? In your life?"

"I do groom them," he protested. The tips were visible in the corner of his vision if he stretched. Maybe they were a little ragged.

Maybe.

"With what? A rake?"

_I'd do it more often if my hands were big enough to pretend it's you_ , was exactly what he was not going to say. "They don't need grooming."

"They do if you wanna be seen with me."

He did. He was the only person in the world, probably, who wanted to be seen with Hiracchi.

"I mean," Hiracchi added, "not that anyone's lookin' at YOU." He jabbed a thumb back proudly at his own wings. "But come on, man, peripheral vision. I've got a reputation."

"The only reputation you have," Imaoka started, "is for being—" He clapped his wings shut so hard he could feel the sting on his back. "You can _not_ touch them!"

"But they're so gross," Hiracchi whined. He inched closer, still reaching out. "How do you know those stripes aren't just bird shit or something?"

"They're streaks," he said again, keeping his wings squeezed tight shut and backing away a step for each one Hiracchi took forward, "and they're not bird shit, I was born with them. And anyway, you can't touch my wings!"

"Says who?"

"We're at school!" And that meant absolutely nothing to Hiracchi, of course, but you couldn't do this at school. In public.

_Because if you get one finger on my wings, I will let you do absolutely anything you want and you will never want to look me in the face again._

"Lunch is almost over," he said desperately. "We've gotta get back to class. We're not even supposed to be up here in the first place."

Thankfully, Hiracchi at least understood the concept of school rules, even if the rest of the human social fabric continued to escape him. He folded his wings sulkily. "Crap. Well, thanks for ruining my day. Mine're itching just thinking about those things." His wings drooped and twitched miserably, like they did when he had a really loose feather.

"You can do it later," Imaoka said automatically, because Hiracchi sulking was one thing, was actually sort of fun in its way, but he had some kind of second brain that took over when he was in pain.

And that brain was a sucker.

"Really?" He perked back up and his wings twitched eagerly. " _How_ later? Like an hour?"

He was so cute, and so stupid, and Imaoka wasn't sure why he bothered pretending he had any free will at all.

"You can come over after school. But only if no one else is home."

He was almost sure he meant the last part.

He spent the afternoon with his wings clamped tight, feeling every loose feather pricking right into his skin, and stuck with the weirdly persistent image of being groomed, flat on his stomach, right there on the roof.


	2. Chapter 2

Imaoka was silently grateful that nobody was home. Maybe it would've been better if they were; maybe Hiracchi would've forgotten by tomorrow if they could just put it off for the moment. But the hot prickling in his still-folded wings was getting close to unbearable, and if this was going to be the end of a friendship, at least he'd be able to _think_ again.

"This is my room," he said, for no reason, as he opened the door. Hiracchi shoved him impatiently through the door frame, charged in after him, and promptly knocked over a lamp.

Luckily the lamp was a metal one, and as Hiracchi surveyed the room Imaoka rolled it into a corner, where it was probably safer for the foreseeable future.

"Where's your bag?"

"My what?"

"Your wing bag."

"My..." He had a vision of a bag full of detached wings, waiting to be stuck onto your back in some kind of assembling room in the sky. "My _what_?"

"Your bag," Hiracchi said like he was talking to a small child, "where you keep your old feathers."

"You keep your feathers?" There was always more, somehow, with Hiracchi. There was always so much more.

"Well, what do you do with them?"

"I throw them out. Like a normal person."

Hiracchi didn't seem convinced. "What's the point in having _these—_ " he flexed impressively and a few photographs rattled ominously on the wall—"if you don't get to keep some souvenirs?"

Imaoka closed his eyes for a second. The frames kept rattling. "Hiracchi, how many of these bags do you have?"

"Five, maybe? My parents tossed a couple," he added bitterly. "I'm still makin' up for those."

It was like trying to reason with a typhoon, but he had to try. "Couldn't you just keep a few of the best ones?"

"Have you seen these babies? They're all best ones!"

"Please stop flapping those in my room."

"I'm gonna get them gilded someday," Hiracchi went on, folding his wings up thoughtfully. There was a moment of peace before he flopped belly-first  
into the nest and started digging with both arms over the other side. "So I need a whole bunch. One for every adoring fan who makes the trip to see  
me in person." He finished rummaging. "You seriously don't have _any_ bags?"

"Hiracchi, even gilded feathers are just... golden garbage. Nobody wants them. And I'm pretty sure you're the only person in the world who saves them."

"Well, mine aren't garbage. And you know why? Because I respect them and I treat them right."

It wasn't like Imaoka had ever looked too closely at anyone else's, but Hiracchi did have a point that his were probably in the top percentage of wings worldwide. If only for the amount of time invested in maintaining them. He definitely wouldn't keep an entire bag around, but one or two feathers might not be too gross.

Maybe.

"I mean, shit," Hiracchi went on, yanking a few pillows out from under his butt. "It's like nobody else even notices what we've got back there." He tossed the largest of the pillows to the side with a flick of the wrist that sent it clear across the room, where it made gentle but insistent contact with the wall directly beneath one of the already-shaky photographs.

"We're mostly too busy knowing what shame feels like."

"Uh, excuse me. Name one thing I even _have_ to be ashamed of."

"How about the time you went into the—"

"Okay, well, anyway," Hiracchi said quickly, "shut up and get your shirt off. I don't have all day here."

"My shirt?"

"Yeah, the thing covering your whatchamacallits? With all that dead crap all over 'em?"

"I'm not taking my shirt off," Imaoka said, very clearly, as the room swelled to about 500 degrees.

"Yeah, you are."

He tried to fold his shirt up a little neater than the remains of his life.

"Hey, if you really don't have any wing bags I'm gonna need a garbage bag for all the crap I'm gonna be pulling outta your gross wings."

"Just leave them in the nest." _You're not even gonna want to stay once you see what this does to me._

"You live like a pig, you know that?"

Imaoka stuffed the sleeves into the wing holes as far as they would go and set the carefully-folded shirt onto one of the pillows at the edge of the nest. He hesitated, then shifted it to the exact center of the pillow. It just looked better that way.

He adjusted the folded shirt again.

"Would you get a move on?!" This was punctuated by another thump from his wings that sent a few more pillows over the edge. The one with the shirt teetered for a moment, then followed suit.

His wings unfolded more painfully than they had on the roof. They were cramped and stiff from holding them in even tighter than usual.

"Hey," Hiracchi said suddenly, "what do you do with the ones you pull off me?"

"Um." Imaoka tried to form a coherent thought. "I don't know. I just toss them, I guess."

"Well, you better quit eating 'em or whatever. We gotta start saving 'em. I bet I'm losing thousands like that."

"I'm not _eating_ your feathers," was the last thing Imaoka managed before Hiracchi grabbed somewhere he might have called an elbow (if he had to give it a name) and the bottom dropped out of his stomach. He shivered as the open air hit the skin underneath a huge handful of feathers, peeled thoughtfully upward for a closer examination.

"Garbage," was Hiracchi's verdict. "You know, you can treat these like crap if you want, but you're not allowed to _look_ like crap while you're rolling with the Hiratsuka crew."

The hot, prickling feeling started to ebb away as his wings relaxed. It didn't hurt, at least. Hiracchi couldn't find "gentle" in the dictionary if you dropped him off at _g-e-n-t_ , but it didn't hurt. Imaoka let the side of his face sink into one of the pillows as a hand came to rest firmly on his spine, and he tried his very best not to feel safe and warm and cared for, because...

"Hey," said a voice, way too close to his ear. "You think anyone ever just—"

Because this was Hiracchi.

"If you bite my wings, you're leaving. Through the window."

"Just _wondering_." The nest rocked slightly as Hiracchi shifted his weight backwards sulkily. "Seems like they'd come out easier. Fine, I bet yours're diseased anyway."

When he woke up there was drool all over his pillow and his neck was killing him. At first he thought the sun had gone down, but as his eyes focused he realized Hiracchi had his wings spread again, circled around the nest like a dome. Somewhere around the middle of his right wing he felt again the thrilling, barely-there tug of something loose slipping free, followed by the lightened ease of something dead finally shed. As he watched, eyes still fixed just where they'd been when he woke up, Hiracchi's right wing flexed absently in front of him; a slight twitch of the elbow and a quick ripple of feathers, and Imaoka wondered thickly if he'd been mirroring every pulled-out feather himself every time Hiracchi dragged him up to the roof. Or if maybe Hiracchi was the only guy in the world who could get that spaced out over someone else's wings.

There was another tug, right next to the first one, and this time nothing slipped free. There was a twinge, very gentle but enough to grab his attention, and as he focused his mind on his wings he found there were other spots where the skin was close to stinging.

"Hiracchi, please. It's starting to hurt."

"Huh?" Hiracchi said absently.

Imaoka concentrated hard for a second and managed to flutter his left wing a bit. As his brain gathered its reserves he realized Hiracchi was—of course—checking each individual feather to see if it was loose enough to come off. There were enough tiny patches of skin exposed to the open air to tell him that all the obviously broken feathers were long gone.

"Let me up. What time is it?"

"I'm not even done yet," Hiracchi protested.

"Well, I'm done." He struggled up onto his elbows, trying to force some life back into his limp wings. Hiracchi backed up and let him onto his knees, though he made a dismissive noise that said he was still far from satisfied. Imaoka chose to ignore it.

He could barely feel anything past a couple of twinges, some general tingling, and a few especially tender spots that were probably going to fade soon into soreness. He couldn't feel his legs, either, but that was for a different reason. A reason he kind of vaguely remembered, somehere in between Hiracchi getting his hands down into the roots of his wings, and... after that.

A reason he was kind of _really_ hoping Hiracchi had somehow missed. Getting himself turned around, he saw a pretty big ball of down and broken feathers sitting next to Hiracchi. Maybe he'd been too busy.

"Hey," Hiracchi said accusingly, "you never told me how fun this is." Shifting focus instantly, he reached down and grabbed a few feathers. "Check these ones out, they're two different colors."

"Can you not wave those in my face?"

Hiracchi snatched up a larger handful and threw them right in his face. "These were _on_ you an hour ago!"

Imaoka spit a few feathers out, trying very hard to keep his temper. "Well, they're not on me now! And they're gross."

"The only gross thing in this room is you and your negative attitude."

Imaoka held his hands up in front of his face just in time to successfully block the next handful. The deflected feathers drifted gently downwards and settled lovingly on his knees. Probably in his hair and on the tops of his wings, too.

"So did you piss yourself, or do you get that thing too?"

"'That thing'?" He rubbed his neck and tried once again to gather his wings up safely, wishing his head weren't spinning too much to follow Hiracchi through every new moodswing.

"You know, that thing! When you're grooming, and you get your hands in there, and it's like—" He gestured extravagantly with his arms, and Imaoka  
could see his wings tensing dangerously.

"Don't flap in here! Yeah, I know." He winced. So much for _too busy_. "That... thing. Everybody gets it sometimes," he offered up weakly, trying to avoid eye contact. "Probably. I mean, I think." He found his fingers curling nervously around the fabric of his pants where they folded at the knee.

"Well, shit." Annoyed, Hiracchi shoved another pillow out of the nest and onto the floor. "I thought I had something special goin' on."

"That's why you're not supposed to use them. Or... talk about them."

"You're telling me you get that thing and you don't wanna do it _all the time_? Man, you're the weirdest fuckin' guy I know!"

Imaoka gave up. His head was starting to ache in earnest now from the half-nap. "And you are the stupidest fuckin' guy I know! You're not supposed to talk about  
this stuff! It's, like—private. And gross!"

"Well," Hiracchi announced, "I don't care. I can fly."

"You can't fly."

"I'm _gonna_ ," he insisted. "Someday. Like, a hundred feet up. I'm gonna drop something on you, I've got the aim of a—"

"I mean you can't fly where people can see you!" He grabbed at Hiracchi's arm, suddenly terrified. "Come on," he said miserably, not caring anymore about avoiding eye contact. He squeezed Hiracchi's arm tighter as if that would be enough to keep him grounded. "Please. You'll get in trouble."

Hiracchi yanked his arm back. "Fine. God." Moving back nervously and rubbing it as if he'd been mortally wounded, he glanced back down at Imaoka for an instant and then averted his eyes again just as quickly. "Don't make that face at me. Talk about gross." His other arm shot out, too fast to dodge, and he grabbed Imaoka's nose and twisted.

"You have to probise," Imaoka insisted. He was used to this; it was Hiracchi's preferred way to wake him up when he fell asleep during an especially boring lunchtime on the rooftop.

"Fine! _God!_ I will stifle my astounding potential because you know best, your Majesty!"

"You swear?"

"Whatever." He gave Imaoka's nose one last tug as he let go. "Oh yeah, and by the way!" He slammed a fist onto the pillows, stirring up another small eddy of feathers. "You couldn't even get me out!"

He was obviously trying to change the subject, but Imaoka rubbed his nose and waited the 6 seconds he always gave himself to catch Hiracchi's train of thought. No trains showed up. "I don't know what that means."

"Out the window!"

He turned to look at the window, then back at Hiracchi, who was starting to vibrate with frustration. "Um."

"You said you were gonna throw me out the window! Dumbass!"

"...Oh. I forgot."

"Well, _I_ have given it some careful thought." He pointed an accusing finger. "And I've concluded that not only could you not throw me anywhere, you couldn't even lift me. Not in your wildest DREAMS!"

Imaoka considered. He'd decided a while ago that Hiracchi could probably lift him, but he'd never thought about it the other way around. "I guess not." That was true. If only because lifting wasn't at the top of his to-do list when it came to _wildest_ dreams. Those didn't come along every night.

"And!" The accusing finger jabbed him in the nose. "Even if you threw me, I'd just fly! And according to you that is bad news! And then it'd be your fault, so don't come crying to me when I get in trouble, 'cause I'll just say—"

"I didn't really mean it."

"Good, 'cause you'd feel pretty stupid watching me fly away into the sunset. Hey," he said, eyes brightening with sudden inspiration. "If you're the only one who sees me—"

"Hiracchi, no. No way."

"I mean, you're not gonna rat me out, right? You'd, like, die if they locked me up or whatever. I don't even know what you do when I'm not here."

"Well... no," Imaoka admitted. He thought about trying to argue with the second part, but there was no point trying to pretend it wasn't true.

"I mean," Hiracchi went on, successfully distracted again (had he even heard Imaoka speak?), as he tossed a handful of down into the air, "you're obviously not lookin' in the mirror."

They both watched the down settle peacefully over a few pillows that had escaped the earlier rain of feathers. "Or cleaning your room. Would you look at all that crap on the floor?"

"All of that was—"

"Is that a fuckin' lamp? What do you even get up to in here?"

There was too much to address at once. "It was clean this morning," Imaoka muttered. That didn't cover as much territory as he'd hoped. Starting at the top again, he began, "You know, when you—"

"Anyway, come on! These babies were _made_ to fly! Just watch me do it for 5 minutes. I won't drop anything on you. I take it back. Promise."

"Why do you need anybody to see you do it?"

"There's no point in doing it if no one sees!" Hiracchi's wings were starting to shift dangerously again, this time with the frustrated energy that meant a genuine explosion was on the way.

"I'll think about it," Imaoka said quickly. He lifted his wings a little, hoping to set a better example of keeping them _still_ for a few minutes, and found them cooler and lighter than they'd been for a long time. There was a breeze blowing in from the window, and the sun, just beginning to sink below the horizon, paused in its course to reflect off Hiracchi's wings like the light glinting in a pool of dark water.

It had been a pretty stupid question after all, asking Hiracchi, of all people, if he really needed to be seen doing something.

"I'll think about it," he said again. "If you give me a week..." He hesitated. "Um... you don't mind about... when, um... I...?"

"Would you spit it out?"

Imaoka put up his hands to prevent any further attacks on his face. Hiracchi's other favorite way of waking him up was tugging on his cheeks. "The—you know, the thing?"

"Man, it's your nest. You wanna ruin it, go ahead!"

"I mean—you're not really supposed to... you know, do that." He couldn't keep from fidgeting. "You're not even supposed to touch someone else's wings  
in the first place."

"Says who?"

"Says everybody."

"Well, no wonder theirs all look like shit. Anyway, you touch mine. Like, every day."

"'Cause you ask me every day." This was headed in a dangerous direction. He floundered for something to say. "I mean, why ask _me_  in the first place?"

"Who else is there?! I can't trust any of those other fucks with my wings! I don't need them sabotaging me!"

For a second Imaoka was sure his remaining feathers were actually standing on end. Whether they were or not, Hiracchi obviously noticed something because he turned red right down past his collar and probably to the roots of his own wings.

"I mean—forget the first thing! It's 'cause—'cause your hands're all little. See, you can get in there and grab the right one. And mine're all big, for grabbing—glory, and victory, and stuff."

"You trust me?"

"Forget the first thing!" Hiracchi insisted with that whiny hint of desperation that was kind of his version of _please_ if you knew how to listen. "A man can't reach everywhere with just two arms."

"If you give me a week to think about it..." If he cared what other people thought, he wouldn't be friends with Hiracchi in the first place. "Turn around. I'll do yours if you give me a week."

Hiracchi brightened. He probably knew just as well as Imaoka did that that meant yes. Because as long as Hiracchi needed someone else to validate his existence, it was always, always going to be Imaoka. In this world or any other.

"A week? Yeah, fine, whatever." He shoved Imaoka to the side, flopped down into the exact center of the nest, and spread his wings wide. "Don't try anything too big, they're already perfect."

"Yeah, they are."

"What?" Hiracchi angled his head back, annoyed. "Quit muttering!"

"Nothing."

He grabbed the upper ridge, plunged his face right into into the roots of Hiracchi's left wing, breathing in the weird, musky, not at all gross scent, and found that he really didn't mind the flapping all that much.

**Author's Note:**

> (note: Hiratsuka's wings are a 6/10 at best, Imaoka is just gay)


End file.
